My friend Morgan is still on hospice care. I spent several days at her bedside. I played guitar for her, sitting on a chair beside her. Sometimes we held hands and just looked at each other. Talking about olden times. 

Like the day we first met, some years ago. 

I was younger. So was she. I was writing a piece about service dogs. I would be conducting some one-to-one interviews with animal recipients. 

That day, I had a string of interviews set up. Veterans with PTSD, who use service dogs for emotional healing and support. Diabetic-alerting service dogs. And service dogs capable of detecting dangerously high blood pressure. Which is a slightly different skill set than my own personal dogs who miraculously, although they are not trained, are capable of causing high blood pressure. 

So there I was in the rec room area. I was sitting at a table, waiting for my next interview. 

In walks this girl. 

A teenager. Slight and lean. A shock of red hair, woven in a long braid. She walked with a uniquely unsteady gait.

There was a purple orthopedic brace attached to her lower leg. 

She stood across from me. 

“My name’s Morgan,” she said. “Morgan Love.”

I rose to shake her hand. 

The child’s grip was firm and confident. The skin of her hand was soft and clammy. Sort of sticky. Little-kid hands. 

Her glasses were heavy prescriptions. She seemed to be straining to see. “I’m mostly blind,” she said. “Sorry, can we sit somewhere in the sunlight so I can see you?”

“Of course.” I gathered my legal notepad and backpack. We moved outside to a picnic table. 

“There,” she announced. “I can see you so much better now. Look at your hair.…

3:42 a.m.—Three hours before sunrise. Sarah and I are awake. Sort of. We begin our marathon route in the hamlet of Manitou Springs, a town where everything is organic, even the Subaru exhaust.

We start our journey alone, in front of the little courthouse, the official starting line of the Pikes Peak Marathon. Before we begin running, we hug each other tightly.

“We’re doing this,” we say before we sprint off into the silent streets.

We’re doing this.

Our path, lit by our headlamps. Our feet, slapping the pavement in a two-beat rhythm. We are the only living creatures awake for miles except, of course, for the prairie rattlesnakes, most of which are, thankfully, at Whole Foods Market right now.

3:49 a.m.—We are running uphill now. We are heading toward the mountains. And, since this is the Amazing Age of Technology, we are using our GPS to lead us to Barr Trail. You have to love technology. It truly is incredible. Even though we don’t know where we’re going, we are safe in

the knowledge that our sophisticated, expensive, specialized trail GPSs will lead us along the official race route.

4:07 a.m.—We are lost.

4:19 a.m.—We are nowhere near the mountain; we are running in circles through random Manitou Springs neighborhoods. My sister is very upset right now. She has never been one to hide her emotions. She is assaulting my small GPS unit, which costs about as much as a tactical government helicopter. The unit keeps saying it’s recalculating. My sister keeps telling it where, exactly, it can lodge its recalculations.

4:22 a.m.—Even though we’ve been running for 40 minutes, we seriously have no idea where we are. I think we are in Iowa.

4:28 a.m.—Sarah is really pissed now. Also, my GPS has gone to be with…